


Return to Innocence

by Madophelia



Series: The Kismet Enigma [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Canon Related, Codes & Ciphers, Drug Use, M/M, Pining, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Teenlock, Unilock, up to blind banker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-08-19
Packaged: 2018-01-26 18:29:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1698287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madophelia/pseuds/Madophelia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Be yourself don't hide<br/>Just believe in destiny<br/>Don't care what people say<br/>Just follow your own way<br/>Don't give up and miss the chance<br/>To return to innocence”</p><p>Active melanin stimulated by the linguistic cortex. That is as far as scientists had gotten in explaining the phenomena.</p><p>Sherlock Homes has a Kismet Mark. That’s when the name of your soulmate is written on your wrist for the world to see, but that’s okay, Sherlock’s is written in code.</p><p>A story of childhood to adulthood and how Sherlock deals with the knowledge that some things are just inevitable, however much you try.</p><p> </p><p>Now with Mystrade companion fic <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/4445948">Gravity of Love</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this post](http://madopheliaa.tumblr.com/post/84124698160/jinxwild19-anglofile-makeyourdeduction) on Tumblr, but with my own twist.

Active melanin stimulated by the linguistic cortex. That is as far as scientists had gotten in explaining the phenomena. The cohesion between melanin activation and the linguistic cortex of the brain ensured the name was in your native language, melanin darkened in direct correlation with your chosen tongue. Studies had been done with children who had different written and verbal languages and sure enough, when they came of age, those lucky enough to have a Kismet Mark found that it was written in the language they predominantly wrote in.

This, it turns out, had complicated results in smart but secretive little boys who developed coded languages from very a young age. 

“You might be able to hide it from most, little brother, but I’ve been able to break your code for years now.”

Sherlock was bundled up on his bed. The slow darkening of letters at his wrist had been happening for days. At first, he’d thought it was dirt, had scrubbed at himself until the skin was pink and raw. Then, perhaps freckles, late to bloom but non-threatening. Eventually he’d had to give in to the inevitability that he was cursed with a Kismet Mark. 

“There will have to be a search,” Mycroft said, leaning on his umbrella in a way that may suit him when he was older but now, at 20, made him look pompous and reaching. “Notices posted, parties held for prospective matches.”

“You avoided one.” Sherlock mumbled into his pillow. His arm was trapped between him and the bed, nestled against his abdomen as if keeping it out of sight would mean it wasn’t happening.

“I work for the government,” Mycroft reminded him, “A small role, but one deemed important enough to hold off the customary declaration.”

“You can’t tell anyone Mycroft,” Sherlock pleaded. His voice was quiet, almost restrained but tinged with a vigour that only younger brothers could summon when beseeching their elder siblings into confidences. 

“I shall not reveal the name Sherlock, a Kismet Mark is a very personal thing, as you well know. I can’t stop people from finding out it’s there, hiding it completely would be far too much to hope for. However, your secretive nature has provided you with ample excuse for concealing the exact nature of the mark.” 

Sherlock sat up finally. His dark curls ruffled, a petulant scowl etched into his teenage face. “It’s such a common name though,” Sherlock whispered, “How am I supposed to know he’s the right one if and when I do meet him?”

“You’ll know.”

“But it is,” Sherlock continued, that insistent whine of unfairness, bemoaning the universe that had somehow stranded him with a repulsive situation and then, just to be perpetually difficult, made it all the more complicated to rectify. “John.”

Mycroft’s mouth lifted in a smirk. “And ‘Greg’ is much more unique, I’m sure.”

Sherlock met his brother’s eyes and attempted a smile. It was half-hearted, pretty much aborted by the time it reached his face, but with their powers of observation the older Holmes could see the gesture for what it was. 

“You’ll find your John, Sherlock. Though God knows you’ll probably never give in to it even when you do.”

“It’s absurd,” Sherlock said flopping down on the bed, on his back this time, marked wrist strewn across his stomach. He stared at the ceiling and huffed out an annoyed breath. “Why should some name written on my skin mean I have to entangle myself with all of that romantic nonsense.”

“You won’t have a choice,” Mycroft warned, “Kismet isn’t something you can just walk away from.”

\------

Coded though the message was, Sherlock heard it loud and clear. However, for those acquainted with him, his disregard for it was instantly apparent. By the time he reached university people had stopped asking for a translation of the marks on his skin. Those dark lines etched over the fragile veins, speaking both vivid truth and greyed-out lies. 

“Is it at least a guy?” 

Victor had his head resting on Sherlock’s naked thigh. His dark hair was slick with sweat and fused to the pale skin of his forehead and neck. They were at right-angles in Sherlock’s bed. Both slightly breathless, chests heaving, loins sated for the time being.

“I don’t wish to discuss it Victor.” Sherlock said. He put the cigarette he was holding to his lips and inhaled deeply. A column of smoke drifted upwards in a straight plume of annoyance. 

“Come on Lockie,” Victor twisted over on to his stomach, his chin resting higher on Sherlock’s hip.

There was a spark of interest there, at the back of Sherlock’s mind, for sure. But he had neither the energy nor the inclination to indulge him any further. Their rendezvous took place once a week, between lectures, for a few hours, no more.

“You can tell me,” Victor said plucking the cigarette from between Sherlock’s fingers and putting it to his own mouth, “There's no else you could tell, even if you wanted to.”

“Then it is fortuitous that I do not intend on telling anyone.” Sherlock said, not rising to the bait. 

“You’re so closed off Lockie.”

“Closed off is a vast understatement for what I am.”

Victor stubbed out the finished cigarette in an ashtray on the bedside table. Rolling over until he was out of the bed and then pulled his clothes on. His haste was apparent. 

“You’re mad now.” Sherlock observed.

“Not at all,” Victor said, “I feel sorry for you. Some of us aren’t as lucky as you. We aren’t all blessed with a mark. You have the keys to the kingdom on the inside of your arm and you’re just wasting it.” 

“Wasting it by not seeking out someone just because a freak overproduction of melanin on a insignificant part of my body says that I should?” 

“Yes, among other things.” 

Sherlock glanced over at the box on his night stand. Thought about its contents, knew very much that he would like some right about then, and turned back to Victor with a snarl. 

“The only waste here is my time with you.”

“Well if that’s the way you feel--”

“It isn’t ‘Victor’.” Sherlock said.

There was silence as Victor pulled his jumper over his head and laced up his shoes. “I never thought it was.”

“Yes you did.” Sherlock said, swinging his legs from the bed and pulling on his own underwear. His hand reached for the box. “You were clinging to the hope that this translates into your name.” He held up his marked wrist and indicated to it with the box in his other hand. 

“I--”

“What is really pathetic,” Sherlock continued, opening the box and pulling his own special seven percent solution from its depths, “Is that you don’t even care that it doesn’t.”

Victor grabbed his jacket from the back of the door, slung his bag over one shoulder and rested with his hand on the door knob. 

“I can’t do this anymore,” He said, “I’ve tried. I really have, but even the special bastard with his name on your arm couldn’t get close to you. You’re completely fucked up, positively unloveable.” He opened the door and was halfway out as Sherlock was pushing down on the syringe plunger “Good luck Sherlock Holmes, I think you’re going to need it.”

\-----

By the time Sherlock had reached his late twenties, a uni drop-out, junkie and all round disagreeable character, he had almost managed to convince himself he didn’t care one way or another about the marks on his arm. An observer would ask, however, that if his consideration of the mark was so insignificant, why did he feel the need to hide it below layers and layers of intoxication and avoidance. 

“You again!”

Rough hands were whirling him around, away from where he needed to be. A large palm ducked him under blue and white striped tape and spun him once more into an alley. 

“How many times do I have to tell you?” the man said as Sherlock’s back connected with the wall, “You can’t barge on to a crime scene, I don’t care how bloody clever you think you are.”

The wall seemed to shift. It wasn’t as sturdy and flat as it should be, it tilted, waved and oscillated in a way that made Sherlock’s stomach lurch. If there had been any food at all in his system, he would have expelled it. Luckily, Sherlock did not comply with bodily needs, it was all just transport. His body, with its constant demands and messages on his skin, was nothing.

“Are you on something?”

Sherlock attempted a withering look. Judging by the inspector’s scathing reaction, he was unsuccessful. 

“You’re bloody high,” the inspector said, “Right, come on, away with you.”

 

The brief interaction with that inspector led to a four-week stay in one of England’s finest rehabilitation facilities, courtesy of his big brother. He was two weeks in before he was coherent and three before his brother would deign to visit.

“This is becoming tiresome Sherlock.”

“What would you know about it?” Sherlock rolled the dice and move the appropriate number of spaces. 

“Not for you,” he clarified, “For the rest of us. For mummy and me. You really can’t carry on this way.” He reached for the dice and rolled his own turn. 

Sherlock made a noise of glee as Mycroft’s character landed on ladder-ridden square. 

“Too bad!”

“Quite.” 

Sherlock didn’t think his brother was giving the game the appropriate attention. Usually, he would be devastated to be losing, even at a game so controlled by chance as this one was. 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said, sitting back in his chair, relinquishing his focus on the game. “A search can be made, we could end this intolerable situation if you would only permit me to tell people…”

“No.”

“But Sherlock, there is so much we can do.”

“Do you think that is what this is about? You think I’m getting high because I haven’t met my _soulmate_ yet?”

“I think you are getting high to hide from it.”

Sherlock stood up from the table. The chair making a hard scraping sound as the metal legs dragged on the tiled floor. 

“I will not permit my… biology… to dictate how I live my life.” Sherlock said stalking up and down. They were attracting disturbed looks from about the room but, the environment being what it was, odd behaviour was somewhat tolerated. “No word on my wrist, or thought in my head will tell me what to do.”

“Thoughts in your head?” Mycroft didn't make eye contact. He allowed Sherlock that space to deny what he’d said, to pull away if he needed to. “You’ve thought about what it would be like, to meet ‘your John’.”

“He no more belongs to me than I do to him,” Sherlock said, avoiding the inquisition as to his mental meanderings, “A simple defect on my wrist does not mean I _belong_ to anyone. I am my own person.”

Mycroft chuckled softly, a sad smile on his face as he appraised the younger Holmes. “Is that what you are worried about?”

Sherlock stopped pacing and glared. There wasn’t an expression he could make that would be vague enough to ensure Mycroft didn’t know what was going on in his head. His older brother knew every nuance, every micro movement of Sherlock’s face told him, in detail, the thoughts rushing through his mind. Consequently, Sherlock had become very adept at schooling his features into a quiet surrender.

“Sherlock, anyone deemed worthy enough to be your soulmate would never try to own you. The person referenced by your Kismet Mark would never try to tame you, they will love you because of who you are. Not in spite of it.” 

“There’s no way to know.” Sherlock said, sitting again finally, “There is no way to know whether he’s the right one. When I meet him, how do I know? I can’t just… give myself to him. What if he’s the wrong one?”

“I promise,” Mycroft said, with all the sincerity he could muster, “That should you meet someone called John, for _every_ person you meet called John, I will provide a test. I will ask them to betray you, pay them for information or something. Then you will know.”

“That would be a start.” 

Mycroft nodded.

“So…. To clarify,” Sherlock said, shuffling his feet into a comfortable position below the table. “Did I embarrass myself very badly in front of the police force?” 

“I haven’t spoken to them personally,” Mycroft said pulling a notebook from his pocket, “But there was an Inspector…” he consulted a page, “Lestrade. He was the one that took you to A&E. He wasn’t around to thank personally by the time I arrived but you should offer your own appreciation once you are able, he could have arrested you.”

“I want to work with them.”

“As a police officer?” Mycroft scoffed, “Really?”

“No.” Sherlock said, petulantly. “I want to be a consultant. A consulting detective, if you will.”

“Novel.”

“Isn’t it?” Sherlock grinned, “Perhaps this Lestrade character would be a good point of contact.” 

“Perhaps.” Mycroft said, standing. “For now, I think it is best you finish here. Then we can see about the rest of it.”

\-----

The first ‘John’ that Sherlock met after that was less than desirable. Chasing him down, restraining him until the police appeared, deducing the evidence needed to put him behind bars, Sherlock did not feel that special spark of connection he was supposed to. 

“What’s wrong with you, freak. You’re acting weirder than normal.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. It had been four years and the sobriety still grated on him in situations like this. There was not enough of that awkward teenager or lonely twenty-something left to physically show his discomfort, only a jaded and calculating man of thirty two. 

“Delightful as always Sally,” Sherlock said, “Another love affair not quite gone to plan?”

He left her in his wake. The defensive revelation of people’s innermost secrets had long since stopped being any effort. It was reflexive now, he could barely stop.

“Johnathan O’Neill.” Lestrade said, “works at a veterinary surgery just like you said he would, thats where he was getting the tranquilisers.” The inspector chuckled, after four years he still couldn’t quite follow along with the younger man’s logic as it was happening, but once it was explained, Lestrade was sharper than most at interpreting it.

Sherlock grunted a reply, words running out of his reach for the moment. Any that he would have wanted to say would not have been appropriate and any that he could have said were still too slippery for him to grasp on to.

Knowing he would get nothing from Sherlock for the rest of the day, he never did, Lestrade let him go with a promise to provide a full statement for their files the next morning.

It was early evening, the sun dipping down below the surrounding buildings lending a soft grey light to everything. There was barely a train of thought that led to it. Perhaps he was simply reeling from that almost-encounter. Maybe it was because he was the only other person that could translate the words on Sherlock’s arm. Whatever the reason, back at his flat on Montague street, Sherlock called his brother. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Mycroft asked. 

He was older too. Nearing middle age, he had grown into that stiff posture that had looked too odd on him previously. Sherlock could picture him, sat poker upright in a high-backed chair, swirling amber liquid in a crystal glass. 

“Start the search.” Sherlock said.

There was a beat of silence that weighed heavily. A rush of air over the crackling phone line as Mycroft inhaled sharply. 

“It’s done.”

There was nothing more to say, so Sherlock hung up. Perhaps he could have explained more, pieced out the rambling thoughts in his head into orderly lines of exposition. Mycroft didn’t need him to elaborate, he would have done it simply because Sherlock asked him to, but still, Sherlock wondered if he should have offered it.

Tipping his head back to the arm of his sofa, Sherlock wondered how long it would take. There was a flutter in him that he pressed down, dampered the flames of expectation with his usual cynicism. 

Raising an arm above his head, Sherlock traced the darker lines etched into his flesh. They were not raised, they did not taste or smell of anything other than his own skin. And yet, their presence was undeniable. People had died because of these, killed because of them. Hearts had been broken when the promise those marks made was finally fulfilled, too late for a current partnership. There were laws and social conventions too complicated and intricate for Sherlock to ever have a full grasp of, all over those few lines written by an invisible hand. As he waited, Sherlock wondered whether it would all be worth it.

\-----

The wait, it turns out, took about a year. Mycroft had placed the notice, and Sherlock had waded through the responses, but none of them proved compatible. The trouble, Sherlock had often ranted about at length, was that the presentation of a Kismet name did not guarantee that your soulmate had your name on their wrist. 

“You said you could do something!” Sherlock said, flinging his arms in the air in gesticulation. 

“I have used all the resources at my disposal.” Mycroft said slowly, “I admit, I had thought that it would be easier. Finding a mutually marked pair is simple, and one with a name as unique as yours, well, I’d assumed they were just out there waiting, wondering why they had been given such an usually named Kismet.” 

“But--”

“Yes,” Mycroft said, slipping into the chair behind his desk. “I did do a cursory search for your given name as well, with the same unfortunate results.”

“Where does that leave us?”

Mycroft pursed his lips and huffed a breath out through his nose. “Without a mutual mark you are left searching for the needle in the proverbial haystack.” Mycroft ran an index finger under his cuff and over his own wrist. 

“Then we are in the same boat.” 

“It would appear so.”

“Right,” Sherlock said with a tight nod. “That’s that.”

“As you wish.”

Then, in a way that is certainly fated--though Sherlock would deny this years later--the search comes to an end. Not because Mycroft had called it off, because when it comes to his little brother, Mycroft would never really let it go. No, the auspicious circumstances that brought about the end of the search was that the John in question, the one written and destined about on the right-hand wrist of Sherlock Holmes, walked directly into the laboratory at St. Barts.


	2. Chapter Two

The way fate works would forever remain a mystery. One Sherlock would try not to spend too much time pondering over in the years that followed. That way, madness lay. It was as though Sherlock’s final peace with his lot has wiggled John free from the traps destiny had locked him in. 

He was calm. He’d taken out a fair amount of stress on a cadaver that morning and had ritually avoided Molly Hooper’s advances with the facade of social inadequacy, all in all his day was going well. The lingering sense of urgency about the search was minor, a faint memory the only thing that remained of a time when it had seemed so important. Resigned as he was, to accept the hand he had been dealt, in the year that followed, he had found there was a certain calm surrender in letting go.

Moving on. That seemed to be the name of the game. Romantic entanglements were clearly off the menu, Victor Trevor had done the spectacular job of ensuring he never tried that one again. But there was no reason he couldn’t have a friend. Someone to share thoughts with perhaps, fill the silence of his empty rooms with chatter upon occasion. It would undoubtedly be of more irritation than it would balm, but he was willing to try. 

Mike Stamford seemed the best choice. A casual yet memorable reference to his search for a flatmate and Mike would probably do all of the leg work needed.

Sure enough, just after lunch, Mike appeared with an old uni friend in tow. The workings of that particular afternoon are a small mystery to the great detective. A conspiring of small details, a certain park, a short glance up from a paper, the recognition of a familiar face changed by age and experience. If any of these singular events had failed to occur, their meeting may never have happened. The mark on his wrist would have sat untranslated until it expired.

Sherlock would like to have said there was no remarkable emotion that accompanied the meeting. A casual observation of the scene would see him only barely looking up from what he was doing to cast an appraising eye over the stranger. Inside however, there is a very different perspective. 

The room seemed to still. The instruments in his hand hard to handle, a temor reverberated through him. His wrist gave a short throb, announcing its presence perhaps, urging him on, indicating a growing desire to fulfil its purpose.

“Bit different from my day.”

Words. How were there words to accompany this feeling? Sherlock was glad of the years he had put in training his facial features into nonchalance, because at that moment, he needed it. Suddenly, he understood why there was so much made of this moment. Excess melanin may be all that it was, scientifically, but in a way Sherlock will never grasp, had no intention of grasping, it was so much more.

“Mike can I borrow your phone?”

Getting away with that innocent expression seemed sinful. How he addressed anyone other than ‘John’ at that moment--for it surely must be him--was beyond him. 

“Left it in my coat.”

“Here, use mine.”

He’s not sure he would have noticed if he hadn’t been so good at looking. But there it was, or wasn’t. Blank strips of skin on either wrist, Sherlock’s name isn’t written on him anywhere. Is it possible he was mistaken? Could the pounding in his chest and whirling in his head just be the product of an overactive imagination? Maybe he had waited too long, the search being as unsuccessful as it was, perhaps he was delusional. 

“An old colleague of mine, John Watson.” Mike said.

_John._

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” It seemed like the thing to do. It was all he knew how to do.

So Sherlock was doing his usual. Rattling off deductions and maintaining his enigmatic persona. It was a stopgap, a pause while he figured out how he could say it. Before he knew what was happening, he had arranged a meeting, offered him a flat and talked his way out of the door.

A simple declarative statement ought to have sufficed. _You are my soulmate._ He’d never believe it. _See. Your name is written right there. No. It’s in a special code. I promise, it really does say your name._ Pathetic.

And then, hours later, the next day after no sleep at all, John was stood there in his home. A steady pulse amid the chaos of Sherlock’s possessions and he still didn’t know what to say. There was a case of course, Sherlock could always rely on the cases, and John makes it so that he can engineer the circumstances to bring him along. 

“Damn my leg!”

It was the perfect excuse. John was ansty already and bored of civilian life. The soulmate nonsense can wait, Sherlock told himself, this he could do for John. One day he’ll let him down, tell him how he’s saddled with this melodramatic giant as a soulmate, but not now. 

Now is for cases and impressing John with the flashing lights and striped tape of crime scenes. It’s deducing Sally and Anderson into speechless wrecks just to watch John smile. 

Then, it is about scratched-in words on a wooden floor. Despite Anderson’s input Sherlock knows the power of these words. It could be a cry for revenge, but Sherlock knows it isn’t. He among all of them knows the power of a coded message. 

Then he was off. His brain didn’t quite have enough room to remember that John was there amidst it all. Soulmate or not Sherlock is, as he always has been, dedicated to his work. It is all encompassing.

_He didn’t take the money. MH_

He didn’t want to feel the flood of brotherly affection he does at that. Because Mycroft remembered. It was a start.

Sherlock has never been able to operate in any way other than exactly as he is. Testing Mycroft’s hypothesis concerning his soulmate is easy. Would John try to change him, feel mistreated, rebel against Sherlock’s directive nature?

John was understandably disgruntled about being called across London to send a text, any normal person would be. Sherlock is delighted to discover that John may not be normal, may be exactly suited to him, because annoyed though he was, he sent the text.

Then there was dinner. It was shy and hesitant at first, bringing John in to this space. He could dodge the assuming glances of Angelo, could wind his way around the social norms that consider this a date without really referring to them at all. John could not.

“I’m not his date!”

He’s not. In that moment he wasn’t, but Sherlock had been hoping--what? That he would be one day? By the time John had scraped his plate clean and Sherlock had gone through his entire range of motion concerning looking anywhere other than John’s mouth, they tenderly tipped on to the matter at hand. 

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

“Not my area.”

“Boyfriend then?” pause. “Which is fine by the way.”

“I know it’s fine.” _Because I’ve had the name of a man on my wrist for almost my entire life. It has to be fine. Especially with you._

“You’re unattached, just like me. Fine. Good.”

Now is his moment. Perhaps he stumbled, is uncoordinated in his delivery because where he meant to tell him his inadequacy, to elaborate on his misgivings and to apologise for lumbering John with him as a Kismet what comes out is, “John. I think you should know I consider myself married to my work and I’m not really looking for…” _just a fling. You’re my kismet._

He’s cut off. “No. No I’m not asking… No.” 

Sherlock’s heart sank. He ducked his marked wrist below the table and squeezed it with his opposite hand. 

“I’m just saying, it’s all fine.”

 _It isn’t though,_ Sherlock thought, _It’s far from fine._

\-----

Once again there was ample opportunity. Paused in the hallway, the reckless abandon of a nighttime chase circling around them in waves, Sherlock thought he might just be able to.

Sexuality might be fluid, could be bright and all encompassing or could be nothing at all. Not that Sherlock had much experience of either eventuality. Just as he was about to explain this, to stare into the incredulous face of a man who has learned he can walk again unaided and tell him all that they could be to each other, John’s straight orientation be damned, there was yet one more stumbling block. 

If fate had a hand in it at all, it was not handing out the right cards for its proposed bet. Sherlock would have to put all of himself on the line for this, and fate had dealt him a heterosexual Kismet and not yet an isolated moment in which to tell him.

Mrs Hudson didn’t mean to interrupt of course, she barely knew Sherlock had the capacity for interest in another human being that way, let alone that this one has been etched into his skin. Like he has no control over it at all. 

There was the rub though. The lack of free will. Dashing up the stairs two at a time and worrying about the implications of a ‘drugs bust’ on this fragile thing he’d been creating, Sherlock was seething. That it was fake was of no consequence, Lestrade could deal with the repercussions of it, he’d seen Sherlock at his worst after all. John though, John was blissfully unaware of so many things.

It would be so much more relaxing to be ignorant. He briefly toyed with the idea of deleting his own code from his memory, wiping the slate clean and turning the marks on his arm to nothing more than meaningless angles. He didn’t. Not because he didn’t want to, but because it turned out the code was one of those things that refused to budge. A corrupted file you can’t erase from a hard drive. It’s written into his coding, literally part of his DNA.

“It stops being fake if we find anything,” Lestrade warned. 

Sherlock could feel the rage building in him. He leant on it, coerced it to lay below the surface but the unconscious part of him had him pulling up his shirt sleeve.

“I don’t even smoke.”

The air sucked out of him as he looked down. His watch strap had provided inadequate coverage for the marks so that they were on display. Their position in the room meant only Lestrade and John had a vantage point but even that sent Sherlock shrinking in to himself. 

“Neither do I.” Lestrade said, baring his own wrist, the wrong one for a Kismet Mark anyway but the sympathetic gesture was enough to cut the tension.

Glancing up at John, Sherlock knew that he had seen it. But beautiful John, soldier, doctor _good_ John didn’t flinch. There was a slight flicker of curiosity but nothing more. He wouldn’t ask, he’d give Sherlock that, leave him the secret knowledge. Sherlock wished there was something he could give him in return, so when he finally figured it out, when he knew how the case would end, he didn’t take John with him.

\-----

The pill was most of the way to his mouth and Sherlock was thinking of what a small tragedy it was he would never get to tell John after all. Then there was a shot. 

It was a flurry of activity and Sherlock could barely get it together in himself to wrangle the name ‘Moriarty’ from the dying man. He was outside and there was a blanket and he was angry, rambling at Lestrade and--oh!

There he was. A small man, in only height. A compact bundle of deadly precision, his moral compass and protective instinct shining so bright Sherlock didn’t understand how no one else could see it.

There was a tally inside Sherlock, a stacking up of all the good and bad in his life. All those things he’d done that he was ashamed of. He’d never be a _good_ man, not like John. But he can stop murderers, he can save lives that way. It will have to be enough. He can even out the scales, make up for his addictions, for his rough treatment of almost everyone he has ever met, for Victor. 

Once that had been done, once the scores were equalled out for good and bad, then he could tell him. 

“Dinner?”

“Starving.”

Mycroft showed up. Of course he did. They were glaring at each other, fighting about the wars, and their mothers and the traffic but Sherlock knew what was really being said. 

_Are you okay? Is this him, have you told him?_

_It’s him. I’m fine. No. Not yet. Not for now._

And Mycroft let it go. Once again he handed over the reins. He may be controlling of so much, and if Sherlock had bothered to ask Mycroft would have told him exactly how far that control spread, but in this he had allowed some breathing room. A little space for Sherlock to grow into. 

It was all codes in the end. Saying one thing, meaning another. John moved in and Sherlock felt like everything he ever said to the man had some sort of alternate meaning. He was almost at breaking point, tiptoeing around John’s stubborn sexuality and his own inadequacy, when the right circumstances fell into his lap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amazed at the response to this. I love receiving your comments on here and on [Tumblr](http://madopheliaa.tumblr.com).


	3. Chapter Three

The right circumstance, as it turned out, involved a few codes of its own. It’s not that it was the ideal time, it wasn’t the right time or the best time, it was just a time in which Sherlock had the opportunity and everything converged to a point there he couldn’t see any objections to doing it. If fate was dealing another round, he finally had better cards.

The first moment Sherlock noticed he could have said something was a situation that would have been more benefit to him. Which, when Sherlock thought of scales and equations, wouldn’t have been very good at all.

“This is my friend, John Watson.” It was a simple introduction. Sherlock made it without even thinking, because they had grown to be friends hadn’t they? Living together and working together. Surely, even that morning John had been on verge of asking to borrow money, is that not what one does with friends? You wouldn’t ask a perfect stranger for money. It’s the whole reason they were there, Sherlock did not particularly want to come face-to-face with Sebastian again after so long, with the heavy memory of cocaine hanging about them. 

“Friend?” The question is expected. Even if Sherlock hadn’t really thought about the introduction too much, as soon as Sebastian asked he knew it was inevitable. Sherlock having a friend would have been a strange concept when they had known each other, it was still a strange concept now come to think about it. But John is there in all his incertitude, so improbable but not impossible, so he must be true. 

Sherlock waited for this theorem to be confirmed.

“Colleague.” John corrected. He wanted to seem professional, Sherlock thought. But perhaps John had considered them only colleagues, would you borrow money from a colleague?

That’s when Sherlock had wanted to say something. Push that smug smile from Sebastian’s face with the revelation that actually, yes, John was more than a colleague. _Because look, his name is written on me, it’s part of my DNA. Four letters drawn on in excess melanin and wonderful improbability._

Sherlock, despite himself, didn’t say anything. And also, despite himself, got quite involved in the case.

\-----

There is only one aberration to the whole day. DI Dimmock. He’s uncooperative, undisciplined and downright annoying. They were standing in the dead man’s flat, Sherlock had just about convinced him that he knew what he was doing when the young DI had just one final jab at him. 

“I don’t know how Greg puts up with you.”

“Who?” Sherlock was about to stride out of the door, he’d practiced doing it so his coat had the optimum amount of swoosh to be perfectly entitled. 

“Greg.” Dimmock frowned, “You know, Lestrade.”

“Lestrade’s name is ‘Greg’?”

“You didn’t know that?” John said at his side, he was laughing but it wasn’t mocking, more incredulous. “You work with the guy.”

“So only the official titles matter, John.”

He was already speed-dialling. Sweeping from the room, forgetting to add the swish to his coat. The phone was at his ear and it connected after a few rings. 

“Whatever it is Sherlock, it will have to wait.”

“DI Lestrade’s name is Greg.” Sherlock was slightly breathless. Mycroft maintained his composure.

“The same DI who fished you out of the gutter all those years ago?”

“I was not in the--” Sherlock sighed, “Anyway, that’s it.” 

“Okay.” A shaking inhale, “Thank you.”

They hung up, there wasn’t anything else to say. 

“What was that about?” John asked, his arms swinging slightly as he tried to keep his stride in line with Sherlock’s longer legs. 

Sherlock slowed down slightly. “Nothing. Just paying back a few debts.”

\-----

The revelation to Mycroft earned him a visit from the ever-present assistant. She was haughty and perpetually distracted by her Blackberry, but handed over the package she came to deliver with a tight smile. Unwrapping it before even ascending the stairs, Sherlock tipped the contents out into his hands. The beaten brown leather of it’s cover had picked up a few nicks and scrapes in his travels, but the weight was familiar. _The interfering git._

The journal wasn’t filled with anything important. Only the ramblings of a young boy so out of sorts with the world. But right on the back page was the only instance of his code ever having been translated to the page. It was a messy list of figures and letters, side-by-side to show one equated to the other.

After creating it, he’d never written in anything else. His school work, although meticulously correct, was always marked down for inaccuracy when the teachers had no idea what the jagged lines and swooping circles meant. Only when he’d shaken off the stubbornness of adolescence did he begin to write in anything other than this fabricated typography. Still, it was woven into the very depths of him, had become part of his own enigma. His mind had known this, or perhaps his entire biology, or his soul if one was going to believe in such a thing. It had known so much that when a written word, so small yet so significant, was forever placed on his skin, it had been in this language, this obstinate font so well ingrained in him.

Tucking the book into the corner of the front-room desk, Sherlock created an eventuality. An event that would resolve by itself or one he could use to force the issue. Either way, it was out of his hands now. 

\-----

John was dating. Sherlock had noted it earlier, somewhere on the periphery of the case notes flitting through his mind. 

It should have sunk in more, he should have been paying attention, because John had no marks on his skin, nothing to dictate his trajectory through the world. Maybe this woman didn’t either, they could find solace in their union of uncertainness.

He was so overcome with the wretched betrayal John had no idea he was even perpetrating that all Sherlock could offer was flippancy.

“You know, a date,” John said, “When two people who like each other go out and have fun.”

“That’s what I was suggesting.” 

Sherlock wasn’t actually as oblivious as he would have people believe. He’d used the gambit so many times, sidestepping social cues, feigning ignorance to them, it was easier than trying to remember all that nuance and imprecision.

“No it wasn’t.” John assured him.

_How would you know?_ Sherlock thought, _Maybe I am suggesting just that. There’s a reason for it. But I can’t tell you yet._

“At least I hope not.”

And there was why. The vividly bright reason why Sherlock couldn’t tell him yet, it wasn’t time. John had never asked about the marks, though Sherlock knew he’d seen them. He was still giving Sherlock that space, denying his own curiosity. He didn’t care enough about Sherlock’s romantic interests, wherever it is they lie, so he hadn’t asked.

So Sherlock didn’t have any regrets about steering John to the circus, it suited his own ends. John could tell him all about it when he got in, Sherlock would pretend he was interested in the events of his date and he could collect data on the circus’ set-up. 

That scheme however, did not last long. John was barely out of the door before Sherlock was ringing up for a third ticket in his name. For the case, he told himself, but it wasn’t. 

\-----

Crashing John’s date, listening to him run on about all the ways in which this is a _bit not good_ Sherlock began to get the idea that perhaps he had committed an unforgivable faux pas. 

Her hair smells of lemons, it moves with unnatural swish. Sherlock’s hair will never move that way, it has too many curls, it’s too thick, it’s too _short_. He has a very good coat, with a very good swish, but he is pretty certain it doesn’t stimulate the same urges in John that Sarah’s lemon-scented hair does.

Sherlock had to wrestle a Chinese acrobat just to stop himself flying at Sarah in jealous abandon.

\-----

Sherlock wanted to take John home after all that, but he insisted on bringing Sarah back as well. There was work to be done, surely John could see how important it was? Sherlock was prickly and annoyed, he may have been making remarks under his breath, he couldn’t be sure. This was about the work, he was annoyed because John wasn’t giving the work the attention it deserved. It had absolutely nothing to do with some cosmic claim Sherlock had to John.

“So each set of numbers is a word?”

“How do you know that?” Stupid woman, how could she possibly have worked that out? Yes, she was a doctor, but Sherlock was very firmly coming down on the side of Sarah being an idiot. It made the whole John-stealing thing easier to bear.

“Well these two words have already been translated.” She reached a slim hand over the top of Sherlock’s shoulder. Very pretty, very pale, very _female._

The resentment bubbled for a moment. Vitriol at this woman for being just that wasn’t going to solve anything, but Sherlock seemed to have lost control over it for the moment. He was saved by the distraction, whirling from the flat, remembering to swish his coat and gunning out onto the street. The book, it had to be at the museum somewhere, he had to get there, but there were no taxis. 

By the time Sherlock’s brain had let go of his jealously long enough to work out the book was the London A-Z, he wanted to show John, show off just how smart he was and reassure him that they’d solve this case. When he got back to the flat, however, they were gone. Stripes of bright yellow paint wrenched his heart into his throat. 

\-----

The tramway happened in a blur. A few quipped lines kept the General distracted long enough for him to launch into the fray, after that he was working purely on instinct. 

There was a fear in his throat. He swallowed down against the acidic taste of it and pushed through, losing John was not an option, not before he’d had a chance to reveal the truth. 

He had to save the woman of course, John would never forgive him. It didn’t trouble him at all that the thought of leaving her tied to the chair and sweeping John away was more than a tiny blip on his radar. It was only the broken look on John’s face that made him crouch down and untie her.

“You’re alright now,” he said, but not to her. 

The situation was too close to battlefield experiences, Sherlock supposed. He didn’t like how fear looked on John, it didn’t suit him. His hitching breath and wide eyes should have given way to a sure defiance, probably would have if it had continued, but Sherlock hadn’t let it get that far. 

Then he could take John home. They dropped Sarah off at her flat, she seemed shaken but alright and after John had administered his doctorly concern, Sherlock had him bundled in a taxi and back home in a flash. 

They did not talk again that night, but Sherlock knew it was coming. It was a close call, too close. He could lose him at any moment, without ever having said what needs to be said. Luckily, the moment presented itself much sooner than he had ever imagined.

\-----

“I cracked this code, all the smugglers need to do is pick up another book.” Sherlock rustled his paper, hunkering down behind it. John had emerged from his room that morning, shuffled about the flat for breakfast and tea, he hadn’t said anything until they were both sat at the table. Now he was asking for a breakdown of the case, an explanation as to why he was tied to a chair and given a short life expectancy. Sherlock could have waxed poetic about his deductions, impressed John with the tale of his heroic rescue. In the end, it wasn’t necessary.

John was smiling over his meal, open and relaxed, the fear and worry of the previous night washed off in the shower. The friendly, comfortable camaraderie at the table was almost enough for Sherlock, almost.

“So you’re pretty good with codes.”

“Book codes are easily decipherable once you find the right book, John.”

“I wasn’t talking about the book code.” 

“Then what… oh. Is it time for that already?” The newspaper was dropped to the table. His fingers shifted slightly against his right wrist, there was an eventuality here, somewhere. He’d already prepared for it.

“Time for what?”

Sherlock didn’t reply, simply reached a hand over into the dark recesses of the desk, under piles of paper and other detritus, and folded his fingers around the journal. 

“You know, I don’t know how they could have confused me with you,” John said, his voice rumbling through a laugh, a smirk, “I don’t understand what you’re going on about half of the time.” 

“I can understand it,” Sherlock said passing the book over to John, watching as it slipped from his fingers, the last interactive part he would have in the revelation. His last lifeline given up. “We are part of each other.”

The look on John’s face was puzzled. Sentiment like that had never come from Sherlock before so he could understand when the army doctor didn’t know what to do with it. Sherlock nodded to the book now resting in John’s palm. 

“Back page.”

The crease between John’s brows deepened, but he opened the book. The lines and circles were stark against the page and Sherlock could barely watch as the realisation fell into the lines around John’s eyes. 

John kept his head down, avoiding eye contact, Sherlock thought. His tongue swept out of his mouth, dragged along his lower lip. Sherlock wasn’t sure if the action was really that slow, or whether his perception of time had altered the closer he got to the inevitability of John understanding the whole of it. 

John stood from the table, journal still balanced on his flat palm. He made his way slowly around to Sherlock, who twisted in his chair so that they were face to face. 

“Can I?” 

Sherlock gave a small nod. Unbuttoning his jacket, he let it slide from his shoulders and bunch up between the small of his back and the chair. It would be wrinkled, but he did not much care at that moment. His stiff, uncooperative fingers fumbled at his cuff and John, steady, comforting John, placed the journal within his eyeline next to Sherlock’s toast and knelt down to help Sherlock roll up his sleeve. 

His warm, calloused fingers swept over the veins in Sherlock’s wrist and Sherlock was sure he could feel his pulse jump at the contact. It was fitting that John should be the only person to view the marks as closely as he was. Even Victor, for all his inquiry, had never been allowed to scrutinise the Kismet Mark the way he had wanted to. 

John glanced up at Sherlock again, as though confirming what he was doing was still alright. Sherlock nodded almost imperceptibly, but the message must have gotten across because John picked up the journal, sat back on his heels and rested it, open to the back page, on his thighs.

John went slowly. Tracing each section of the mark before working out it’s corresponding letter in the Latinate alphabet used for the English language. _There is no need for the alphabet to be in that order,_ Sherlock suddenly thought. He understood the evolution of it, knew the history and that it was derived from the Northwest Semitic "Abgad" order, but he didn’t understand why the first letter of John’s name looked so appealing. More complex yet, he did not understand why the crossed circle of the letter in Sherlock’s own code looked even more so. 

He had been staring at the marks for so long, seen them fuzzy behind swollen, inebriated eyelids and stark against rehab bedsheets. In every viewing they had never looked a part of him until they were under John’s fingers. 

They had been still for while, Sherlock realised. As his concentration broke, he found himself staring into John’s face, a matching pair of hesitance and nerves.

They were both still and silent but John’s pause came from a great run up. If Sherlock was the deer in headlights, John had slammed on the brakes so fast that he was left stationary, rattled, chest heaving. His lips were parted slightly, a note of shock hanging in the creases of his eyes. He had finished decoding it then. 

The moment wasn’t as Sherlock had thought, but then moments never were what you thought they were going to be. He had thought he could ignore the thing completely and he had been wrong, he had thought he could find solace in Victor even though he knew he was destined for someone else, and he had been wrong. He had thought, in his naivety, that meeting John in the first place wouldn’t be a big deal and in that, he had been more wrong than anything. 

“Why the code?”

It was typical of John, with his soldierly demeanour and doctorly concern, to want the practicalities out of the way before combatting the inevitable emotions. 

“I was… secretive. As a child.” Sherlock gave in way of explanation. 

“As a child?” John mocked, crooking an eyebrow. 

“Alright,” Sherlock allowed, “But somehow the code I used for everyday written language translated onto my Kismet Mark.” 

“Yes,” John nodded, “Bilingual children manifest their marks in their written language, even when the dominant spoken language is different.There have been studies, they’re still not sure exactly how it works.”

It was Sherlock’s turn to raise an eyebrow. 

“I’m a doctor,” John said, not raising his head from scrutinising the mark at Sherlock’s wrist, the joint held loosely in this warm fingers, “I learnt some stuff about Kismet Marks.” 

“You were an army doctor.” 

John nodded, his eyes fluttering closed. 

“I’ve seen so many,” John said, his thumb glancing over the marks once, a sweeping pressure at Sherlock’s pulse. “I’ve had to-- I met so many people whose name’s I’d seen written on dead friends.” 

Sherlock waited, letting John take a moment. 

“I was right here.” John said finally, looking up into Sherlock’s face. “You nearly died with that pill, And again yesterday with that damn acrobat. What if you had? Was I supposed to find out from your bloody corpse?” 

“John--” Sherlock started, but John cut him off with a silencing hand, dropping it from Sherlock’s wrist and rising to his feet. 

“Why now?” John said, clearly having reached the inevitable emotions part of the proceedings. 

Sherlock didn’t answer, just watched as John stalked up and down, the physical manifestation of the anger and fear he’d felt himself every day since discovering the mark, even more so since meeting it’s namesake. 

“Come on,” John said suddenly stopping, striding over to Sherlock and placing angry hands on either arm of the chair, caging Sherlock in. 

“Because,” Sherlock said with an uncharacteristic stammer, willing some control into his voice. “I have nearly died so many times, even before you were around to protect me from cabbies and Chinese gangsters.”

“So yesterday’s was just extra special because I nearly died too?” John scoffed, looking at his feet, “You have a strange sense of romance Sherlock.” 

Bringing a hand up to cover John’s on the chair, Sherlock wriggled his fingers to nestle between the wood and John’s heated palms. He squeezed lightly, urging John to look at him, notice the sincerity in his eyes at his next sentence.

“It was because you nearly died,” he explained, “I couldn’t let that happen. Not without you knowing. It was always inevitable you would find out, a singular eventuality written in some distant language I am unaware of. It was out of my hands, that’s why I let my journal talk for me. I couldn’t be the one to tell you.”

“I don’t understand.” 

“I couldn’t give you the bad news,” Sherlock said, trying to find words amidst a broken language, “I couldn’t be the one to tell you that you’ve been saddled with me of all people.” 

A loud, cackling laugh erupted from John’s throat. “I’m already saddled with you, you idiot!”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed, he felt the skin wrinkle and the perplexing sense of incomprehension that inspired it, but he couldn’t stop it happening. 

“I’ve already chosen you,” John said, his hands flipping over in Sherlock’s fingers, sliding down to nestle in the crook of his knuckles. “I didn’t need some melanin on my skin telling me that we’re meant to be together. I already knew you were my best friend, in it for life.” 

“That is a vastly different sentiment to the one this mark is communicating” Sherlock said tilting his marked wrist upward to meet with the matching patch of skin on John’s body. There was a jolt of something like electricity at the contact and Sherlock felt the shiver all the way up his arm and down his spine. 

“I know,” John said quietly, rocked by the contact himself, possibly. “You know, I almost died before you too.”

“You were shot.” Sherlock said, “You asked God to let you live.” 

“I was, and I did.” John nodded, “but that’s not what I meant.” 

That was inexcusable. He wasn’t allowed. The thought of John’s gun wielding hand turning against his own head filled Sherlock with a sensation so jarring and a taste so bitter he had a hard time swallowing. 

“Coming out of the army, it was hard. Civilian life seemed so grey and ordinary compared to life over there, but there was no way I could go back. I am a soldier, even if my body won’t allow it.” John twitched his shoulder slightly, indicating the injury that must be scarred. “There was something on my body dictating how I should live my life. I’m sure you understand.” 

“I do.”

“They you can appreciate that however it happened, the mark on my skin brought me to you eventually.” John lifted Sherlock’s hand then, placed his coded wrist against the heat of his shoulder, aligned and matched. “It’s not as pretty, it isn’t in code. It’s a mess, and I hated it. It brought me here.”

“I hated it. Resisted it.” Sherlock left his wrist against John’s shoulder, feeling the thrum of energy along his arm that was in no way the mark of an emotional response. That wasn’t sentiment he was feeling, wasn’t irrationality, just the release of all that pent up tension. Well, almost all of it. “Mycroft says you can’t fight it, even if you try.”

“And you tried.”

“I did. I failed though.” 

John was moving closer now, Sherlock’s knees parted slightly so John’s body could slip between them. He was warm, connected to Sherlock in ways he hadn’t been before, parts of John’s anatomy were pressed against other parts of Sherlock’s anatomy in beautiful yet, ultimately, just shy of satisfying ways. There were infinite combinations and possibilities. Sherlock wanted to try them all. 

“I tried.” John whispered, “I’ve been trying to resist it since I met you.”

“Have you failed?” 

“I don’t need marks on your skin to tell me.” John clarified. “I knew before I knew.” 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 

“Yes, that sounds idiotic. I’m sure you’ll tell me how in many long-winded ways later, but for now I notice you have become a little less eloquent than usual.”

“I have?”

Sherlock’s breath was coming fast. It was true, he was having an issue with stringing more than a few words together at once. John was impossibly close, closer than he had ever been before and something in Sherlock’s brain had short circuited. 

“Sherlock,” John whispered, “There are patterns of social conventions that take place when two people are in this situation. When one has told they other they are destined to be together and the other has accepted that.” 

“There are?” 

“Yes.”

John kissed him. Sherlock expected the circuit in his head to explode, he expected a flash of almost-pain at such a long-awaited event finally happening, that his heart would swell so much it could burst. None of that happened. 

What happened was that Sherlock’s brain stopped having a circuit at all. Nothing exploded, it just stopped running. He was blissfully blank and calm for the first time in his life. Usually his brain was running at a million miles an hour, drugs had served to dull it slightly but he’d never been able to turn it off. How had John, simple uncomplicated John, managed to flick the switch supplying his brain with energy firmly into the off position? 

“I love you.” Sherlock said in a rush as they parted. 

John did not reply. 

“I just wanted you to know, its not the mark or because some silly belief in fate or destiny is telling me I should. I love you. I would have loved you even if I wasn’t meant to.”

John laughed and pulled Sherlock down to him again, “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. There are some things greater than destiny.”

 

\-----

“Are you sure you want to do this? It is a little preposterous.” 

“It wouldn’t be my first,” John said, sliding into the chair, “and it’s only fitting, I doubt we’ll go in for anything official, so this is my way.” 

“You don’t need to prove anything to me,” Sherlock said taking his place on the stool at his side, their hands clasped together, “It’s been six months, if you were going to leave I’d have deduced it by now.” 

“I’m sure you would have, love.” 

Sherlock’s cheeks coloured slightly. They always did when John used terms of endearment. They’d come on so easily from him that Sherlock couldn’t pinpoint exactly when it had started. It could have been that first day, when John pulled away long enough to make a cup of tea.

‘Want one, love?’ he might have said. 

Or it could have been later, pressed together in a humid, darkened room. ‘that’s it, love’ or ‘slowly, love’. He’d said all of those things, but which was first?

Sherlock never used them. He’d tried, but they sounded alien, a strange shape in his mouth. At first he’d seen it as a failing, yet one more instance in which he couldn’t be ‘normal’. John had informed him that he’d been saying the doctor’s name as a term of endearment since they day they met, so there was no need to worry. 

John had always been able to decode Sherlock. Now Sherlock would be able to decode him. 

“You sure this is right?” the man said, joining them in the small white room. He held up a piece of paper, Sherlock’s name written out in his own code. 

“That’s it,” John said, pulling his hand from Sherlock’s for a moment to pull his t-shirt over his head. “Right here.” He indicated the patch of skin below his scar. 

Sherlock had inspected it many times now, but it still filled him with a sense of wonder every time his saw it. He itched to run his hands over the shiny flesh, but he resisted. There would be time for that later. 

“It’ll have be below, I suppose?” 

“Yeah,” the man said, settling on John’s left and pulling on latex gloves, “can’t do it on scars that bad. Sorry, man.” 

“No problem, just under is fine. Over my heart, I suppose.” 

“That it is.” 

He swiped at the area of skin John had indicated with cleaning solution and pressed the vinyl to his skin so that Sherlock’s coded name was transferred over. The letters looked beautiful, dark against John’s skin. It felt like ownership. Was this how John felt? Was that why he fell asleep with his hand cupped around Sherlock’s wrist? Did John’s stomach jolt with this excitement when he ran his fingers over Sherlock’s mark at a crime scene? 

Sherlock thought he would never get used to that sight. Would forever be tracing the words with his fingers. Even when he wasn’t touching him. 

“Ready?” 

“Ready.” 

John tipped his head back in the chair. He squeezed Sherlock’s fingers once and smiled when Sherlock squeezed back. 

Sherlock waited, thankful for John in ways he would never be able to comprehend. He’d come to understand that some things couldn’t be avoided. Like Greg and Mycroft, who seemed such the odd match upon first glance, but who actually complimented each other so entirely that Sherlock was sure Mycroft had been replaced with a more affectionate and loveable clone. John was an eventuality. He was improbable and puzzling, but solvable. The solution, as it turned out, was Sherlock. 

The thirteen year old in him that had felt the first stirs of resentment towards his marred skin had finally stopped fighting it. He saw the marks for what they were now, an indication that he was important, to the only person he deemed important. That he mattered, that he was someone, he belonged to someone. And now, they belonged to each other. 

Sherlock felt he couldn’t wait for it, couldn’t wait for John to belong to him the way he belonged to John. Destined. Fated. Kismet. Call it when you will. Sherlock waited. Until finally, the steady buzz of the tattoo gun filled the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this took so long. I don't even have a good excuse except that I've been away from Tumblr and everything as of late because I'm making some moves in my career and my Master degree and that has taken up some of my free time. 
> 
> If you stuck with it this long, thank you. I hope the final part was worth the wait. If you want any more of this story, a sequel, epilogue, smutty goodness, or Mystrade editions, let me know. I might get around to writing it, but I won't be able to say when. 
> 
> THANK YOU SO MUCH for all the feedback this fic has gotten, it was honestly a labour of love. As soon as I saw the prompt I had to write it. I know there are other versions, better versions, but this was just my interpretation. Drop me a comment and let me know what you think. 
> 
> Thanks again.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi over at [Tumblr](http://madopheliaa.tumblr.com) and we can talk about this some more if you like :)


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